


Playing House

by Neotoma



Category: DC Superheroes, The Flash (Comic)
Genre: Canon Relationship, Flash Rogues, In Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Supervillains, Young, canon gay, dumb as a plank, old loves, villains in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-28
Updated: 2009-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neotoma/pseuds/Neotoma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone was young and stupid in love once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing House

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the [back-up story](http://scans-daily.dreamwidth.org/623987.html) in the Flash Annual #10, with additional information from Flash v.2 #190. For the Flash_Rogues Holiday Exchange 2008. Thanks to **marag** and **greenygal** for beta-reading.

Henry insisted that he have a day job ("for tax purposes. They caught Al Capone by tax evasion"), so Fury worked a crappy job at a crappy construction company, hauling lumber for finicky old farts, and seeing inside houses that cost more than his father could have earned in ten years.

Of course, it paid off, since it let him scope out people who had more money than they could possibly spend in a lifetime, and once he figured out where they banked at, and what frou-frou thing they did for fun (black-tie openings of theater shows were good, thousand-dollar a night hookers were better, because nab their hidden account for _that_ and they might not go to the cops out of sheer embarrassment). And once he told Henry, his tricky little musician did a bit of talking of his own, and they would have a great time pulling jobs. And the cops didn't match up a guy on a renovating crew and a guy making fancy flutes with two masks robbing banks and businesses in the Twin Cities.

It was a sweet deal. Safe jobs, easy money, and it turned out that the rush made Henry open up enough to be giggly and flirty and just fucking wild when Fury responded– which turned out to be goddamned amazing. Who knew musicians were such dedicated perverts? Fury had thought they were all boring old guys who sat in stuffy concert halls playing dull music, instead of something real, like Keystone City blues. Of course, Henry could play the blues, St. Louis and Chicago and even Delta when he wanted, and it was fucking hot, but it wasn't something Fury expected all the time; Henry was too damned distractible, for starters.

So Fury came home on the interstate, drove over the bridge and down into a neighborhood that wasn't comfortably seedy or proud yet desperate. Instead, it was 'trendy' – rich young things with banker's jobs and no sense pushing into a neighborhood that used to be a nice place to live, but now was getting too expensive for real people.

Had to admit, the apartment was nicer than anything Fury could have gotten into on his own. He had no idea how to even fake the paperwork that would have gotten him the keys. Henry, though, just walked in with his fresh face and his ability to talk the talk of yuppie idiots, and was handed his choice of views; Fury didn't think the musician had even had to hypnotize anyone.

He parked in the lot, and flipped off the yuppie jerk who gave him the stink eye for daring to live in the building while so obviously working for a living (or so every idiot in the whole neighborhood thought). The lights were on, and when he opened the door, Henry was on the floor, with welder's goggles over his face, his tongue out in concentration as he used a miniature blow-torch to do _something_ personal to a twist of bright metal.

The Pied Piper was building instruments in the living room.

Again.

Thank god he'd remembered to roll the rug away. The fancy tiled floor might get scorched and cracked, but at least he wasn't going to set anything on fire this time.

Henry looked up, smiled, and said, "Earl! You're home early!" He politely turned the blowtorch off and shoved the goggles up onto his forehead. He looked straight out of juvie like that, ridiculously young and full of mischief.

"Uh huh," Fury replied. He wasn't sure if Henry was quite through being the Pied Piper yet. Building instruments in the living room was generally a sign that Music Boy was bored and wanted to pull a job, or was feeling pissed at society and wanted to pull a job. Or was feeling horny and was trying to distract himself until Fury got home so they could fuck like weasels. Basically, if Henry was in any way upset, he made a pipe. Or a flute. Or something that looked like an octopus and sounded like an angry church organ.

"Who the heck is 'Hartley Rathaway'?" Fury asked, flipping through the stack of mail, and seeing an unfamiliar name.

"That's me," Henry said.

"That's you?" He looked at his partner. "How many names you fucking got, Music Boy? Henry Darrow, Michael Saint-John, George Devon, Hartley Rathaway? What'd you do, pick them out of a book? And that last one is ridiculous. Who names their kid 'Hartley'?"

"A selfish, selfish man," Henry said. He reached for the envelope. "Anyway, that's the name I'm doing the instrument-making under."

Fury rolled his eyes. "We're doing fine pulling the jobs we've been doing. Why're you still trying to be straight–?"

Henry snorted with laughter.

"Not what I meant!"

"But funny." Henry opened the envelope and skimmed the contents. "I like making instruments, Earl."

"For fun?"

"Yeah, for fun. I might as well sell them when I'm finished–"

"They're your gimmick! You'd give away your gimmick?"

"Not _those_," Henry – no, the Pied Piper, that outrage was the pure fire he had when he wore his costume – said. "Those are mine! But the ones that are just concert pieces, nobody can do anything with those. And I'd like to be famous for something other than pulling capers, someday – I could make a name with better pipes for concert musicians. It was what I was working on, before I figured out I could hypnotize people; it's something I can do after I'm through with capers. I'm not going to be running around in tights and knee-boots when I'm fifty, I hope."

Fury snerked at the image. "Yeah, who wants to be a has-been? I'm gonna be living on a beach someplace, nothing but miles of sunny skies and cabana boys."

"Cabana boys?"

"Pool boys? Dumb and pretty and wearing tiny little shorts? Whatever they call 'em, anyway."

"That's your retirement plan?"

"It's an idea," Fury said. At Henry's look, he added, "And you'll be there too, if you want?"

And the skinny musician got off the floor, and slipped forward, climbing over the couch and up the little row of steps to where Fury stood, all soulful eyes and sad face.

"If I want?" Henry whispered. "You're my partner. I'm going with you, everywhere." He grabbed at Fury's denim jacket, pulling him down. "Don't forget that."

Say what you want about skinny musicians, but Henry sure knew how to use his mouth. Fury was light-headed when Henry let go of his hair.

"You have a great mouth," he babbled as he leaned on Henry.

"I practice."

"I noticed, Music Boy. I noticed," Fury muttered, and bent to kiss Henry again.

For all that he looked like wide-eyed jailbait (especially in his working gear, as ridiculous as _that_ outfit looked), Henry wasn't shy and he wasn't timid. Which was why he shoved a hand down Fury's pants while grinning like a devil.

That was a great development, so Fury helped, or at least held still as Henry peeled open his fly and gripped. His hands were callused, but not hard and dull like the working-men Fury used to pick up.

"Hey, a little–"

"Shut up," Henry ordered, his teeth in his smile and batted Fury's hands away when he tried to move things along more directly.

Which was how Fury wound up with his pants down, leaning back against the front door, while his partner jacked him off. Nice and slow, and Henry kept kissing him the entire time.

Music Boy was crazy fierce when he wanted to be.

"Ah..." Fury couldn't think for a minute after that. It didn't help that Henry smirked at him the entire time he was trying to catch his breath and get his brain back together.

"You good?" Henry finally asked, once Fury could focus his eyes again.

"I'm okay. You–" Fury said, as he grabbed Henry and hauled him up onto his shoulder, even as the musician squawked and thrashed, "–are a goddamned menace." He rubbed his cheek against Henry's thigh, and laughed as his partner yelped again, and clawed his fingers into Fury's back.

He dumped Henry on the couch, and promptly straddled his knees. Neatly captured, Henry just smirked at him, challenging him.

"Let's see, what are you supposed to do with a horny menace? You got any ideas, Music Boy?"

"Well..."

"Right. Who asked your opinion anyway?" Fury said, and shoved his tongue in Henry's mouth.

Rucking Henry's shirt up let Fury stroke over the flat muscles of Henry's chest. His hands, rough and callused from the construction work, caught at the spray of reddish hair, making Henry squirm.

"You're gonna make me fall off the couch!" Henry yelped.

"Nah, I got you." Fury knew he could keep Henry in place, because he had done it before. And Henry didn't weigh that much, for all that he was middling-tall. It was all flat muscle and skinny legs for the musician. That made it easier to get his jeans undone and down, anyway.

"What do you want? Here? How about here?" Fury teased, stroking close, but never actually touching Henry's dick.

"Bastard."

"Yeah, yeah, tell me one I haven't heard, Music Boy," he laughed, and finally grabbed Henry tight.

Henry bleated, like a gag balloon. And then made a wonderful groan.

Course, he did that because Fury had licked the tip of his dick. Music Boy was easy – start on sucking him off, his brains slide right out his ears.

Didn't hurt that he had a nice dick, either. Not hairy on the shaft – Fury thought that was gross whenever he found a guy built that way – but lightly covered all over his balls and crotch.

So Fury went to work. He slid one hand under Henry's tight little ass to hold him in a better position and used his other to grab Henry's wrists to stop him from grabbing or petting or any of that other distracting shit that Henry did.

Fury could make Henry come with just his lips and tongue, because he was good at this.

And Henry never lasted long – still too young, he was like a rabbit. Except that rabbits didn't groan and shake like that, or so Fury hoped. And they didn't shriek like a banshee when they came, which Henry was doing.

Fury waited patiently for Henry to stop gasping. His brains had to settle – he never made any sense until he could breathe normally again.

Finally, the high color drained from him, bright excited pink fading to the pale golden peach that Fury thought made him look edible.

"Oh god," Henry mumbled. "That was great."

"It was, wasn't it?" Fury smirked. He was good, after all. "So... you got any plans for tonight, besides trying to set the living room on fire?"

"I rolled the rug away this time." Henry yawned, and said, "Let's see. I could make spaghetti. What?" he added defensively, "I don't burn it!"

"Anymore," Fury corrected. "You don't burn it anymore."

"It's not my fault no one ever taught me how to cook!"

"How about we go out? Tune Town has this great band–"

"Blues again? You're predictable, Earl." Henry squirmed off the couch, and pulled his jeans back up. "Okay. We'll go eat bar food and listen to up-tempo blues."

Fury smiled. This would be a great night. And he could tell Henry about the solo job tomorrow.


End file.
